‘You may not realize how weak we are right now. No one gets a second chance with deals like these.’
‘This puts us back on top. Get the five million,’ he said. ‘And Bucks will handle the exchange with Kiko.’
The air in the room felt weighted with smoke, with the world starting to take a left turn. Tommy would have had her handle the exchange. But she said, ‘Okay.’
‘Change is coming, Eve,’ he said. ‘Nothing for you or Frank to worry about. I’m gonna take good care of you both. But we’re gonna rethink business priorities. My dad, bless him, he wasn’t growth-minded. Bogged us down in too many small deals. You’re worried about Miami horning in here. They should be worried about me horning in on them,’
‘Paul, baby, reality check.’
‘How about a reality check on your part, Eve? Who works for who here?’
‘I’m trying to give you perspective so you make an informed decision, honey.’
‘The decision’s made.’ Paul Bellini cleared his throat, put on a smile. ‘You think I’m such a horse’s ass, then you can help Frank with running the club day-to-day.’
To her it wasn’t far removed from a job flipping burgers. ‘You don’t need me and Frank for real work, we’ll go back to Detroit. I don’t care much for Texas, to be honest.’
‘Eve, of course I need you.’ He eased back in his chair a little bit. Wriggling his butt into the throne. He was twenty-four and he didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Worse, he didn’t know what he didn’t know. ‘As long as you support our new directions.’
She saw she couldn’t win. Being put out to pasture, her and Frank both. She had known Paul his entire life and he looked at her with all the interest he’d give yesterday’s paper. ‘How does Kiko want the cash?’
‘Nothing bigger than a fifty,’ he said. ‘Who you gonna work with?’
‘Richard Doyle at Coastal United,’ she said. ‘He’s safe.’
‘Yeah, if the doggies ain’t running,’ Paul said with a laugh. ‘Go find Frank, rescue him from Miami Vice. Tell Bucks to take ’em back to their place. And send the girls in, would you? Kiko’s shy but I’m sure not.’
What a nice guy he’d turned into since his dad’s accident. She stood.
‘And Eve. I noticed your body language while I was cutting the deal. Bucks saw it, too. I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Otherwise, smile and sit still like you’re happy.’
If Big Tommy was here and heard him talking to her that way, he’d backhand Paul across the room. But she said, ‘Sure, Paul, sure,’ and kept her gaze to the floor. She closed the suite door after her.
The two dancers, the tall one they called Red Robin and a stunning black girl named Tasha, chatted in the hall, wearing their stupid theme costumes. Frank wouldn’t let the girls simply strip, no, they had to be characters. Red Robin had a leather bikini with cowboy fringe, a holster with little fake pearl-handled revolvers, and a white Stetson. Tasha wore a bra covered with CDs, and a miniature flat fake computer screen mounted in front of her crotch. A computer mouse’s cord wound around her throat like a necklace, the mouse resting atop mountainous breasts. Eve wondered how much the gear weighed. She’d heard Paul was hot for this one.
‘Y’all can go in now,’ Eve said.
Red Robin did, already swaying her hips to the downstairs music, but Tasha stopped. ‘Hi, Eve, how are you doing?’ Tasha spoke with the clean enunciation of an actress. No street about her.
‘Fine, honey,’ Eve said with a thin smile.
‘I wanted to talk to you… you know a lot about money, right?’
‘Depends.’
‘Well, Paul said you knew how to hide cash. So you don’t have to pay taxes on it.’
‘Paul’s mistaken.’ Eve jerked her head toward the door. ‘And he’s waiting for you.’
‘Sure, Eve. No offense meant.’ Tasha went inside, shutting the door behind her.
Eve stood alone in the thin light of the hall. Paul deciding deals involving millions – millions – and shutting her out. Now an uppity big-titted dancer wanting tips on taxes because Paul mouthed off about cleaning money, a topic his father never would have discussed with a girlfriend.
A little pulse of nausea seeped into her guts. She hadn’t wanted to come to Houston, God no, swearing never to set foot in Texas again, but Tommy had insisted she and Frank come to Houston with him when the other mob bosses forced him out of Detroit. Connecting a minor celebrity like Frank to the Topaz had been sheer genius for generating interest and crowds and giving it a more respectable sheen. Then the stroke took out Tommy and now Paul was risking everything they’d built.
Eve walked down the flight of red-carpeted stairs. Club Topaz was in full swing, a cramped city of men. In the dim light a trio of women danced on three different runways, all three of them stunningly beautiful. Throngs of men, and even a few women, were in the crowd. It was big business for a Wednesday night. In one corner a group of young Astros whooped and hollered. In another corner a Houston Rocket and a couple of visiting Dallas Mavericks enjoyed synchronized lap dances by a pair of Swedish twins. Near the main stage, ogling a pole-dancing double-D brunette, was a local actor who’d hit it big in a movie last year and scored an Oscar nomination. And of course, around them, a locust swarm of everyday guys, drawn by knowing that athletes and actors and the famous would be on display as much as the supple thighs and perfected breasts.
Did you all not get enough tit as kids? Eve wondered as she moved through the crowd, looking for Frank. Apparently the tour had slowed to enjoy the attractions. She found Frank, Kiko, and Jose at a front table, a chesty Latina dancing for Kiko, with a plumage of folded twenties on her thonged ass.
Eve leaned down and said into Frank’s ear, ‘Paul says give them to Bucks. And I’m ready to go home. Excuse yourself from the table in ten minutes and I’ll be in your office.’ Frank nodded.
She worked her way back through the crowd and went upstairs, to Frank’s spacious office. It was more for meeting and greeting than for reviewing liquor inventory or interviewing staff or talent. Plush chairs, a mahogany table, the inevitable photos of Frank Polo glad-handing every notable who passed through the club doors.
She sat behind his desk, put her face in her hands, and wished that Tommy Bellini wasn’t laid up in a bed for the rest of his life. It had been him thirty years ago that she’d met to return the money that James Powell had stolen. For a chance at even greater money, and Tommy had not disappointed. Tommy had liked her, brought her into the organization, given her responsibility, power, and protection. And a life free of cloying attachments.
But Paul was why monarchy fell out of favor. You could have a king with an idiot son and piss away the empire in no time flat and leave the loyal subjects with no jobs. And one did not walk away from the Bellini family with all the information Eve had. You didn’t list on your resume the millions of dollars you laundered or how many hits you knew the Bellinis had ordered. Frank was already relegated to being the club’s frontman; God knew what job Paul would give her, probably stuck in a back office counting bar receipts.
If he doesn’t kill you.
She had been afraid of Tommy, of course. The fear kept you alive, the caution of every step you took. He could be kind, generous even, but if you crossed him, you lost money, you lost a finger, you lost your life. He held himself to high standards of performance. Paul wanted respect he couldn’t yet command and seemed to have little regard for her or her abilities. Piss him off and she would sink like a stone in the waters of the Ship Channel, sporting concrete sandals and three bullets in her head, one for each decade of service.
The door opened and Bucks stepped inside. He shut the door behind him, gave her a bright, snappy smile.
‘Don’t you know to knock?’ she said.
‘This isn’t your office.’
‘No, it’s my boyfriend’s office. What do you want?’
‘Peace and quiet,’ he said. ‘This place is too loud. Not conducive to clear contemplation.’ Bucks sat down on the leather sofa like he was used to lounging in the office.